Restoring the Republic
by onlyfortheviews
Summary: Ezra Bridger is a Jewish-American communist volunteering to fight for the Republicans in the bloody Spanish Civil War. Sabine Wren is a French artist of noble heritage, hoping to profit by selling her paintings of the chaos in Republican territory. When these two meet, nothing will be the same.
1. Chapter 1

The lean boy trudged through the forest, his boots becoming marked with the scent of Spain.

To call him a boy would be an understatement. His visible biceps, his tall figure: these compensated for the fact that Ezra Bridger was young.

 _Perhaps I am too young,_ he thought to himself as he searched in vain for his allies. _I'm only 17 years old. I should be back in Newark, with the other degenerate communists._

He chuckled at his own self-deprecation.

 _Where the hell are these soldiers supposed to be?_

He clutched his rifle and gave it a shake, only to hear rattling inside. _Great._ It was a fairly recent model ('fairly recent' describing his Mauser Model 1893, a weapon somehow in use in 1936), but it was crudely manufactured, in this case. _Hell. I don't have anything better to shoot Fascists with, do I?_

" _Camarada, ¿que te envió?"_ a Spanish voice spoke from the trees. "Who sent you?"

Ezra got over his initial shock of hearing a voice for the first time in two days. _"El gobierno, Camarada."_ Ezra's Spanish was shoddy, but it would have to do.

" _Ven conmigo, Camarada."_ The voice emerged from the trees, to reveal a man in his thirties. He seemed awfully short-sighted for a soldier, but he wore no glasses.

" _¿Que le paso a tus ojos?"_ Ezra asked inquisitively.

" _Yo soy ciego. Un poquito."_ Great. A blind man in the trenches. It'd be incredible if he could fire a rifle straight.

Correction: a _little_ bit blind.

Ezra sighed. It would have to do. _"¡Vamonos!"_

––

For many, the Falangist coup in July had been disastrous. Thousands were already dead. The trained Fascist troops under Franco were causing great casualties to the poorly trained Republican militias and International Brigades.

For others, it was an opportunity to profit.

Sabine Wren began painting what she saw: a sentry with an antiquated rifle in a hastily erected watchtower, gazing into the streets of Barcelona as crowds gathered with red flags and signs, protesting the weak Azaña government. She gave it no thought. She was here to make money selling her paintings of the Spanish situation to all sorts of characters, after all.

She sighed. _One day,_ she thought. _I'll be in that crowd._


	2. Chapter 2

" _Camarada, tienes una misión._ Comrade, you have a mission."

The authoritative voice struck Ezra as something that normally wouldn't be regular in such an... _irregular_ military. Here, the word "comrade" applied to all. All were, in effect, equal in rank, and all treated each other genially. They all had stories of the evils of Fascism and the better tomorrow that Socialism would bring.

 _But an assignment wouldn't be so bad,_ Ezra thought. _At least it would be a good way to get some practice in._

" _Sí, Camarada. ¿Cuál es mi misión?_ What is my mission?"

" _Camarada,_ you are to travel to Barcelona, although it is a long while from here in Aragon. Your job is to pick up supplies. Take the opportunity to familiarize yourself with the disaster that is our homeland."

" _Camarada,_ do I travel alone?"

" _No, Camarada._ Travel _con_ Kanan, _el judío ciego,_ the blind Jew, _y con_ Zeb, _el australiano._ Head out as soon as possible. Supplies are, well, in short supply here."

Ezra allowed himself to laugh. _"Sí, Camarada. Me voy._ I go."

––

Three men on horseback riding to Barcelona would be a rare sight to behold in those days, especially given the war.

Kanan, Zeb, and Ezra rode in solitude for the first few hours, until the necessity of human connections inexorably grinded against them, eliciting conversation between them, starting with Ezra.

"So...Kanan, are you really blind?"

Kanan turned his head to the voice. "Well, I told you, son. A little bit."

"They say every man with a gun is helpful, but we're talking about a Jew who once ran off to shoot rabbits," Zeb's gruff Australian voice rang out.

"That was one time! We were out of food!"

"Cannibalism isn't the worst idea I've had."

"Well, we'd start with you, big guy."

They all exploded with hysterical laughter.

—

When they arrived in Barcelona, they attempted to procure their supplies as fast as possible, from food to medicine to alcohol. However, demonstrations blocked the paths out of Barcelona during the night, so the three decided to quarter in different areas of the city.

For his part, Ezra entered a somewhat more modern apartment building and knocked endlessly on door after door, until he found a room that wasn't closed off: 614.

—

" _¡Que viene!"_ Sabine called out. "Coming!"

When she opened the door of her room. Room #614, she was taken aback to find a young man her age, with a rifle slung over his shoulder, and a uniform of a communist soldier.

Quickly, she ascertained that he was an American, so she spoke in English. "Can I help you?"

The young man's face brightened upon hearing a familiar language. "Yeah– er, yes. I'm Ezra Bridger, an American volunteer here. I came to Barcelona on a supply run, but demonstrations blocked the paths out of the city, so I have to stay somewhere."

Sabine decided to gently tease him. "Meaning…?"

Ezra grinned. "Meaning that I'm asking you for quartering."

"Well, you've got it. Just be out by morning. I don't want visits from the NKVD."

Ezra froze. "The NKVD is here?" A look of fear paralyzed him.

Sabine shrugged. "They are. They are vigilant, but they have off-days."

That seemed to relieve Ezra a bit, and he laid his rifle down on the floor. "I never asked you your name."

"Sabine. Sabine Wren."

"Is that French?"

"Yes, and I also happen to be French myself. You?"

"What are you doing here in Barcelona if you aren't fighting?"

"What makes you say that I'm not fighting?"

"Just the fact that you haven't any markings. No red stars, flags...anything, really."

"Fair. I'm not a soldier, besides. I'm an artist."

Ezra perked up. "Mind if I take a look at your art? There's just so much violence and killing around, and not enough beauty."

Sabine started to walk towards her paintings, with Ezra following. "I mostly just paint what I see. This is my job, you know? This French firm pays me decently if I paint what's going on here."

"Then where's the enjoyment in that?"

"Sorry?"

"You're not painting because you love it, even though I'm sure you love painting. Your reason is for money."

"Well…" Sabine's indignation quickly mellowed into reflection. "You're not wrong, but I don't see myself doing anything else."

Ezra shook his head, and then he gestured to the crowds outside. "Don't you see yourself in that crowd?"

"Is this what you Americans call humor?"

"The funny ones, yeah."

"Charming."

"That's the point."

Sabine smiled sheepishly. "Well, kind of. I do see myself in there. I'm plenty rebellious."

"Tell me more about that."

"Well, I'm from a noble French family. My grandparents and their parents and their parents before them had sons who would fight in wars and win glory, and then who would settle down, marry beautiful girls, and bear more sons. But my parents? They had a daughter, that was the problem. A woman can't fight in trenches!

"But I wanted nothing more than to defy them, and that's why I'm here."

"That sounds awful, having to go against your parents."

"Why, you know something about that?"

"I know not knowing my parents."

"Oh."

"Dad was arrested during the Great War for criticizing the government. Mom disappeared not long after she had me."

"That's awful."

"Worst thing about it is that I turned out this way." Ezra smiled beatifically, and that brought a smile to Sabine.

Sabine yawned for the two of them. "I'm figuring that it's been a long day for the both of us, and that we should probably get some rest. You especially."

"Agreed. Say, do you have an extra bed?"

"Let's just leave it at 'no'."


End file.
